i'm bad (at love)
by what a lovely way to burn
Summary: — weakness in one lifetime does not mean weakness in the next.


**i'm bad (at love)**

* * *

Druella Rosier couldn't have been worse at picking the people for whom her heart fell.

 _First Edward, Jackson, Tomas, Steven, and Micah; now him?_ she thought to herself as she threw a black-leather-clad leg over the seat of her motorcycle. She kicked it and sped away, heart racing and veins pumping with adrenalin. This was, perhaps, one of the best evasions of capture she'd ever made — and she'd just barely made it.

Joshua — or Joshie, as she called him — had sold her out. Just like every other man she'd fallen for before had. All she wanted was to live her life, steer clear of the bobbies, make a bit of cash, and nab a boyfriend. But no. If she revealed herself, no matter how long she'd prepped the guy for the moment, they would run screaming (literally) from the room and phone the cops immediately.

For once, couldn't she find someone who would accept her? She wasn't proud of her felonies, but they were a necessary evil.

Having been disowned at a young age — sort of; she had been punished severely with the Cruciatus curse by her own father and ran away as soon as she could make her legs listen to her brain telling them to move — she was used to fending for herself. In the sketchy parts of Muggle New York City, that meant fighting dirty. She was used to it by now, but she still wished that she could find someone to take care of her instead of the other way around.

There was blood on her hands. Too much blood for a not-quite-seventeen-year-old girl.

She still wasn't taken seriously, though. All she'd ever wanted was to be taken seriously. All her life, she'd been ridiculed and taunted because of her weaker magical capabilities, and she was bloody sick of it. At least in the Muggle world no one knew about magic and they wouldn't laugh if she didn't manage to make a feather levitate. The bobbies dismissed her because she wasn't even of age in their minds. That was a good thing for her. Sometimes. Not always.

Rain started to fall — not hard, but enough to make her skintight clothes uncomfortable. She flipped on her blinker and pulled into a dark alleyway to the side of a strip club before shutting down the engine. She dismounted, swinging her leg over the seat again, and made her way to the ladder leaning against the neon-lit building, which was hidden behind a tall shrub.

She climbed it, being even more careful because of the slipperiness and her stilettos, and hauled herself up onto the roof. Home sweet home. There was a covering around the edge of the roof that kept most of the bad weather away, but it could get terribly cold in the winter.

The furniture was spare: just a mattress with a raggedy blanket and a beanbag that had lost most of its beans. She had scraps of food around someplace. Food was hard to come by these days. That was one of the reasons she went mostly after "sugar daddies" — the money, the clothing, and the food. (The sex wasn't bad.) But more often than not, she fell in love with them and their lifestyle.

Druella shook her head to disperse those thoughts and kicked off her heels. She couldn't feel her toes. Making her way to her mattress, she grasped the hem of her damp shirt and flung it away somewhere. She heard the splat it made as it hit the floor. Oh, well. She'd get it in the morning. Right now, she needed to sleep.

She pulled the hangings around the mattress away and gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound.

Someone was already sleeping in it.

•

Walburga Black's life was less than exciting. Her younger brothers were the only bright spot to her otherwise dull existence; they pulled pranks and even made her parents laugh from time to time, which was a miracle in and of itself.

But she was bored. So bored and tired of her Pureblood life. The expectations were too high, and she wasn't good enough. She was certain she'd never be good enough — not like Cygnus or Alphard, anyway. She would make a terrible wife, a terrible mother.

So she penned a short note, packed a shoulder bag charmed to be bottomless with shrunk clothes, wrapped her wand in a velvet cloth to diminish its power — her wand was already strong by itself, and combined with her magical core, very powerful indeed — and climbed out the window and down the trellis.

A plane flight would take too long, so Walburga stole into the Ministry and took an international Portkey. She didn't even look at the destination; she just wanted to be gone before her note was found out and she was caught.

The tug in her navel was an experience she'd never felt before and not one she felt the need to feel ever again. Thankfully, she landed safely in an alley behind a brightly-lit building. She rounded the corner and walked to the edge of the curb to crane her neck and read the sign. Of course: a strip club. What other business would be open at — she checked the little silver watch strapped to her wrist — three A.M.? What a time difference.

Just then, a scantily-clad woman pranced past Walburga, raising her eyebrows and sneering a bit at Walburga, who sneered right back. The woman merely rolled her eyes and opened the door to the strip club. Walburga heard loud cheering coming from inside before the door snapped closed again.

She glanced down at herself and realised why the woman had stared. Leaving in a silk dress that cost more money than most people earned in a month was probably not the brightest thing she'd ever done, but it couldn't be helped now.

Hopefully this wasn't a place she would run into anyone she knew. That could get messy. At least she was in the Muggle world — wix didn't dare pull anything in front of Muggles, so she was safe unless transported back to Britain or a magical place here in America.

Sighing, she turned around and entered the alley again. She kept close to the edge, wary of who or what might be lurking down here in the darkness. About halfway to the dim streetlights illuminating the other side, she bumped into something. Squinting, she discovered that it was a ladder. A tall one. It was too dark to see what was at the top, even with the lights from the strip club sign flashing every other second.

Making a split second decision, Walburga grasped both sides of the ladder and began climbing. It started to rain the moment her head popped over the edge of the building, which was a foot-high wall, and she quickly ducked beneath the tarp for cover, hearing the drops plink against the material. She saw a bed at the far side of the rooftop and made a beeline for it. She didn't care whose bed it was, or whether this place was a criminal's hideout; she just wanted to sleep.

She collapsed on the mattress — which was surprisingly comfortable given the other surroundings — and was asleep as soon as her eyes fluttered shut.

•

Druella's face wrinkled in confusion and worry. Whoever this person was, they must have been desperate to have climbed the ladder and stayed after they looked around. Judging by the size, they appeared to be a girl who probably wasn't any older than Druella herself.

She couldn't bring herself to wake them up, so she took the raggedy pillow they weren't using and a blanket and laid down on the ground. It wasn't the most comfortable position to sleep in, but it was better than sleeping in the same bed as the stranger and potentially waking up by a punch in the nose (it had happened).

She'd deal with it tomorrow.

•

Walburga was awakened by the sound of someone shuffling around in an attempt to be quiet. It wasn't working, but she appreciated the effort. She yawned loudly and turned over on the mattress, and the person stopped moving before the footsteps drew closer and stopped by the side of the bed. Deciding that it was useless to fake being asleep any longer, she opened her eyes and sat up.

She was faced with a girl who couldn't have been more than a year older than she was. The girl had blonde hair in a curly ponytail to her waist with dyed streaks of red. She wore black leather pants, heeled boots, and a ripped black tank top. Her eyes were a brilliant blue — the colour of a summer sky, Walburga thought — and her skin was extremely fair. She was, quite possibly, the most beautiful girl Walburga had ever seen.

"Who are you?" the girl asked, not unkindly.

Walburga thought for a moment. "Wallie," she answered finally. A new person, a new place, a new name — a new start. Someone who didn't know about her family fortune. Someone with whom she could be herself instead of actng the proper Pureblood lady.

The girl's nose turned up before she announced, "You look rich."

Oh. Right. She was still wearing her fancy dress from back home. Thankfully the style was similar to Muggle high-end fashion instead of looking like Wizarding robes. That would be difficult to explain. "One could say that," she said cautiously.

"Ran away, did you?" Walburga nodded. The girl's voice warmed a bit. "So did I. And now look at me!" She twirled, arms stretched overhead. "It's wonderful to be free."

She stopped spinning. "Where are my manners? The name's Drew Seer." She pronounced her last name as the word was when referring to a prophet. She stuck out a hand. Walburga eyed the chipped nail polish, hard callouses, and dirty fingernails before stretching out her own soft hand with its well-groomed nails to meet in the middle.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she ventured tentatively.

Drew barked a laugh. "That's a first. In all my days here in the city, no one _ever_ considers it a pleasure to meet me."

"Why not?"

"Ain'tcha ever heard of the Sugar Baby?" Drew peered at Walburga. "No, I don't believe you would have. You don't seem the type. Well," she continued, not waiting for an answer and sitting down on an overturned bucket, "they say that she chooses her victims carefully; she always preys on the rich ones. Usually they're widowed and lonely. Young is also something good going for them. She befriends them, always acting the catch. They fall for her, they have sex with her, they feed her and clothe her and give her baubles and make her fall in with them. Then she shows herself after a while, and they call the bobbies on her. She runs, and chooses a new victim after the scandal dies down." She sighed. "I have to wait at least four months. This last guy didn't really do much of anything for me, so I have no money currently."

Walburga's eyes were comically wide. " _You're_ the Sugar Baby? I thought she was a myth!"

Drew winked. "Babe, here in the city — hell, in the entire world — the myths are all true stories that have been toned down over the years."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Three years," said Drew. "I started when I was fifteen and ran away from home. I've earned quite an acclaim by now."

"I want to join you," Walburga declared. "Girls snogging girls always attracts the guys."

"You're from Britain, aren't you?" Drew asked. "The accent was a dead giveaway, but no one here uses the word 'snogging.' We kiss here in the States. Ain't kissing good enough for you?"

"Can I join you or not?" Walburga asked impatiently.

Drew grinned. "Welcome to the show."

•

"You can be the sidekick," Drew said. They had moved on from New York City, and were currently in Chicago. The American police still hadn't figured out who was behind the crime, not even after all the years — three before Wallie joined the show, and two after.

The dynamic duo were more famous than ever, especially after their show in Boston. (It included showing more skin than Wallie had ever dared show before, feathers in obscene places, and five other people. They had decided that what happened in Boston stayed in Boston.)

Walburga had made peace with her decision. She was happy — much happier than she ever would or could have been had she stayed. She went by her new nickname all the time now; she didn't think Drew even knew her full name, just as she didn't know if "Drew" was a nickname for anything.

"I am _not_ going to be the sidekick!" protested Wallie. " _You_ be the sidekick! I've been the sidekick the past three times."

"Listen, kid," Drew began, drawing herself up to her full height, "Who between the two of us has more experience? You?"

Wallie rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. "Ugh!" she exclaimed. "Fine, whatever. I'll be the bloody sidekick!"

In truth, she hated being the sidekick. But she had become quite close to Drew — closer than she ever imagined she would have been to another girl — and was willing to do quite a lot to make her happy.

Drew patted her on the head fondly. _Fondly_ , thought Wallie bitterly. Drew didn't think of her that way. When they kissed to put on a show, the blonde always pulled away as soon as she could. "This is going to be our toughest nut to crack yet," she announced. "You'll be glad I took charge."

•

Wallie was _not_ glad Drew had taken charge.

"If I had planned our heist, we wouldn't be here," she whispered furiously to her partner in crime as they sat in the waiting room of the Chicago police station. They were still both clad in their skimpy dresses that barely fell mid-thigh, and she felt the lecherous eyes of the perverted old men — old to her, at least — across the room. Not to mention that the guy behind the desk was leaning back and appeared to be undressing the two girls mentally.

"I'm thinking," Drew hissed back. The two girls lapsed back into silence. Then Drew placed her hands at the hem of her dress and began tugging it upwards.

"What are you doing?" Wallie asked in a horrified tone. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the creamy flesh her friend was exposing.

"Hopefully getting us out of here," muttered Drew. She continued to inch the dress up. The secretary — or whatever he was — was practically drooling, and the old guys weren't faring much better. "Be ready for anything."

Wallie sat up straighter, eyes darting around the room. She wanted out of here. Drew stood and sauntered towards the secretary, who looked as if he was going to pass out. He was probably their age, but he hadn't lost the cheek chub yet and looked younger.

"Wanna play?" she asked boldly. The guy blinked before clearing his throat and muttering something unintelligible.

"Hum — bubba — I, uh... _yes_!"

Drew smirked and threw a leg over his, dropping so she was straddling him. She ran her hands across his chest and tried not to make a face. There was a very obvious reason that the boy wasn't an officer; his muscles were non-existent. Drew began undulating her hips and the boy's breathing picked up speed until, with a loud moan, he burst in his trousers. The old guys were watching with gleaming eyes, even going so far as to stroke themselves through their baggy pants.

Wallie was open-mouthed as she watched Drew climb gracefully off the secretary's lap. She was no stranger to sex acts — they were the Sugar Babies of the States, after all! — but it was her first time actually watching without participating. Drew's dress had ridden up around her waist and her cheeks were red — from exertion or embarrassment, Wallie wasn't sure. Her hair had been mussed by the man's wandering fingers.

She'd never looked more beautiful.

•

They escaped — just barely. Drew would have laughed at the pitiful security and safety measures; she could have made a better bobby, and she was a criminal! The girls hopped on their faithful motorcycle and raced off, sirens wailing behind them. Drew drove and Wallie sat tight, arms wrapped tightly around the blonde girl's waist.

Just outside of the city, Drew took several lefts and then a right and repeated the process a few times until they found themselves driving at a much more leisurely pace down a narrow dirt road. They couldn't go too fast or the wheels would kick up a huge amount of dirt, which was like sending up a smoke signal announcing their location. Finally, Drew turned off the engine in front of a rundown little shack that Wallie didn't want to know how Drew even had known was there.

"Come on," said Drew with a faint smile. There was a lipstick smudge on her cheek, but she still looked gorgeous. Combined with her dusty combat boots, short dress, and black helmet tucked underneath her arm, she looked badass.

"Where are we?" Wallie asked, climbing off the motorcycle.

Drew led the way into the shack and turned on the dim light with a string. "Not sure," she replied truthfully. "I found this place when I passed through. Haven't been back since." She spun in a circle. "Never thought I'd need a place to hide out on the fly again."

Suddenly, she turned back to Wallie. Her blue eyes were intense and there was a little frown marring her forehead as she scrutinised her friend. Wallie wanted to kiss the frown away, but at the same time, she wanted to slowly back away. "Drew? What is it?"

Drew sighed and looked around. She pulled a dusty plastic chair out from an equally as dusty plastic table and sat down. "Wallie," she began, "you and I both know that we're keeping secrets from one another. Our full names, our identities before we came to the States. Who we were before we became...us. Drew and Wallie."

Heart beating frantically, Wallie slipped into the other chair. "Right," she said, priding herself on her strong voice. "Are we going to tell one another, then?"

"I think we should. Don't you agree?"

Wallie nodded slowly.

Drew took a deep breath. "Okay. I was born January twelfth. I'm twenty years old. I'm British. My name is Druella."

Wallie nodded along until Drew mentioned her name. It sounded familiar. Pushing the feeling of having heard that name before aside, she replied, "I was born April twenty-first. I'm nineteen. I'm also British. I ran away from home because I was engaged to someone I've not ever met." She bit her lip. "My name is Walburga Black."

"Black?" echoed Drew — Druella. "Oh, Merlin, I've had a Black as a sidekick for two years." She stopped and grinned widely. "I'm Druella Rosier."

•

That was the start of a glorious new friendship. Both girls had recognised the other's name, and since they'd found out they were both witches, they spoke freely of the Wizarding world.

They also learned many other things about one another that night. Walburga learned that Druella was nearly as powerless as a Squib. Druella learned that Walburga wasn't nearly the perfect Pureblood daughter she'd acted.

They learned, together, that they were both "queer." Walburga liked everyone; Druella liked women romantically and both genders sexually. It took quite a bit of stuttering and blushing for them to admit those facts, but they did, and then Druella led Walburga into a heated kiss on a cot in the ramshackle hut as lights filtered in through the tattered curtains, casting shadows over their faces.

That was the start of a fiery relationship. Life was never going to be dull between the two of them.

•

Years later, Walburga discovered that she made quite a good wife and mother. And Druella discovered that she wasn't as bad at love as she'd once thought.


End file.
